The Hungry Artist

Near the entrance a young man stood – a very youthful looking fellow – and stared at Jules across the way. Probably at the ever-blooming red carnation and the curls draping her shoulders. He looked over at Sue too, for a split second, not enough time to see past her glasses. Sue’s lips were painted ruby red like the color of the carnation, with the kind of lipstick that stays on the lips for a whole day. She wore a pale yellow scarf around her neck, probably because of the cold weather, but also to cover what she called crow’s feet on her neck. But rather than commenting on any of this attire, the stranger at her side said, I like your glasses. Sue said nothing and wondered what it was about her glasses there was to like. They were like any other pair of glasses. Yes, the frames had a subtle purple tint, but this was nothing out of the ordinary. She removed them from her face and wiped the lenses with the napkin that had been wrapped around her glass. The young man from the entrance now stood behind, so close she could feel his cool breath on the back of her neck. If her ears were conch shells, this young man at an advantage could lean in, and when he did he would hear erotic phrases, musings of a theorist set to violin music, the echoes of a poet’s address.